The Case of Missing Whisky
by Mundungus42
Summary: A stolen inheritance leads Holmes and Watson to a world that doesn't wish to be discovered. Surprisingly tasteful crossover with Harry Potter.
1. The Music Teacher

Title: The Case of Missing Whisky

Author: Mundungus42

Rating: PG for big words

Disclaimer: I own nothing beyond my own depraved imagination and some of the words. Remember, you must pay me .002 cents every time you use the word "the."

Additional Disclaimer: This story contains absolutely no time travel.

Disclaimer for Additional Disclaimer: Sorry, had to get that off my chest.

Author's note: I've been kicking this idea around my brain since my Great Doyle Kick of 2000, shortly following the release, and my subsequent digestion, of "Harry Potter and the Goblet of Fire." This is primarily an attempt to add an admittedly unlikely chapter to Watson's delightful chronicles of his adventures with Holmes. However, there's plenty of food for plot for Potter fans, as well, including my self-proclaimed brilliant explanations of Albus Dumbledore's more eccentric (by wizarding standards) habits. Any misogynistic comments by Holmes are included for characterisation and for my own great amusement.

Period note: I've done my darndest to be historically and canonically accurate, so if you spot anything inappropriate, let me know so I can kick myself and change it. Please believe that it took all of my will power to keep from mentioning the Giant Rat of Sumatra, because, really, do you think the world is ready to hear it?

PLAYTHEGAMEFORTHEGAME'SOWNSAKE

It is with no small amount of apprehension that I take up my pen to write about the extraordinary events of "The Case of Missing Whisky," a quaint conundrum of a name for a case whose details must be swathed in secrecy indefinitely. Never in all my years of chronicling the adventures of my friend Sherlock Holmes has a case so remained in the forefront of my consciousness, filling me with feelings of uncertainty as to my place in the world as an investigator, a physician, even a rational member of the human race.

When I approached Holmes with my intention of writing about the case, he gave a harsh laugh and expressed false regret that the case was no longer a source of pregnant silence between the two of us, and that he should miss its presence. However, he eventually surrendered his notes on the case before sinking into an introspective silence and gazing out the window on to Baker Street below.

The events in question took place not long after the "Adventure of the Empty House," a tumultuous time for me, having within a relatively short span, lost my wife and regained a dear friend. My practise occupied me sufficiently at first, but in the weeks following Holmes's sudden return, I took to spending more time in my old chair at 221b Baker Street. Holmes never spoke of Mary's death, for which I am grateful, but he would intersperse the extended silences with sudden questions relating to a case or topic he had been researching, often startling me out of my melancholy. It was on one of these Sundays that Holmes accosted me with an item in the _Times_.

"Watson what do you make of this?"

Missing: twelve cases fine whisky. Disappeared early morning 14 September from Grosvenor Square home. Reward.

"The writer must have been looking to save money to place such a crude advertisement,"

"Quite, Watson. The way each word takes on meaning beyond its definition borders on poetry. But how can such an penurious author reside at such a prestigious address?"

"Perhaps he has recently begun reaping the benefits of lifelong frugality. Or perhaps the advertisement was placed by one of his retainers; one new or young enough to still be timid with his master's money."

His eyes danced. "And is that all you can glean from this paper?"

"I fear that my mind has become unaccustomed to such exercise, Holmes."

"Then we shall have to work twice as hard to return it to its former state. From this paper, I deduce that the advertisement was placed by the grandson of the recently deceased Algernon Billings of 37 Grosvenor Square, one John Eddington by name, in an attempt to recover part of his grandfather's bequest. Young Eddington is in his late twenties, makes a modest income and lives in a small house in order to compensate for his love of fine wine."

I stared at my friend in unabashed amazement. "You divined all that from that paltry advertisement?"

His lip twitched in amusement. "Watson, you have admitted to me that your powers of reason have weakened from lack of use. I hope that your hearing is not equally atrophied. I said that I had gleaned from the paper all that I needed to know. I fear I may have misled you in that you will be unable to find the information that I was privy to, as it has already been removed for my index. Kindly peruse the entry for Algernon Billings."

I found the file sandwiched between a biography of a German wrestler and notes for what appeared to be a critique of harmonic theory, and noticed that a lengthy obituary had recently been attached. It was a sensational item detailing the life and times of Algernon Billings, philanthropist and notorious epicure. Numerous smaller news items were clipped together behind it; largely society news items and the occasional police report from rows in restaurants.

"I begin to see how you reasoned thus, Holmes, but surely you have had some other contact with the man in order to know so much about him, especially for you to bait me so."

He laughed. "My dear Watson, though I may fault your logic, I cannot fault your conclusion. Yes, I have had a letter from Mr. John Eddington." He drew a letter from his pocket and handed it to me, then turned and began to pace his usual circuit in front of the window.

_Dear Mr. Sherlock Holmes, _

A mutual acquaintance, Mrs. Violet Bassett, née Hunter, has recommended your particular skills to me about a matter that may appear unimportant, though I am positive that once you are informed of the facts you shall see it as a case with merits of principle that reach far beyond the committed crime. Certain items that I recently acquired have been stolen from my late grandfather's estate, and the Scotland Yard investigators have not been able to determine how the items were removed from the house. As I am unsure whether their findings are due to a lack of evidence or my lack of social station, I seek an impartial third party to investigate on my behalf. I will call on you at your convenience

_- Yours, John Eddington._

"Do you really think it unusual, Holmes?" I asked. "It sounds to me like a run-of-the-mill theft, most likely perpetrated by a local cut-purse who took advantage of the confusion that inevitably surrounds any estate assignation. I can't see what sounds at all interesting about it."

"As low an opinion as I have of the observational faculties of our local constabulary, I cannot imagine that even they would be unable to determine how twelve cases of whisky vanished from the wine cellar of a well-to-do family, especially a family who have contributed generously to the Policemen's Ball for many years."

"So you suspect a dispute between Mr. Eddington and other family members, then?"

"Watson, you know I never theorize before I have all the evidence. It biases the judgment."

The sound of someone ascending the stairs jolted us to attention.

"Ah," said Holmes glancing at the clock on the mantel. "As the footfalls are too heavy for it to be Mrs. Hudson, it seems that Eddington is as punctual as he is precise with words."

Refusing to show dismay at the loss of my private audience with Holmes, I stood and to get my coat.

"Excuse me, I don't wish to keep you from your business." Holmes put his hand on my arm, concern clearly etched on his face.

"Dear Watson, I did not mean for you to leave; quite the contrary. Oh- I see, you felt I was slighting your company for a client! My apologies. I merely scheduled the meeting with Eddington at the time when you were most likely to be here, for I suspect I shall depend quite heavily on you should this case prove to be as challenging as I anticipate."

I was quite embarrassed by this. "Really, Holmes, I don't know what kind of help I should be. I expect you shall take a cursory glance at the house and know how the whisky was removed, when, and the name of the thief. In comparison to your other adventures, this case sounds so ordinary."

"Unless I am much mistaken, its commonplace nature is a suggestion of inner complexity. As was the case with the Red-Headed League, the more bizarre a thing is, the less mysterious it proves to be. It is your commonplace, featureless crimes that are really puzzling."

His reference to that old case brought a smile to my face, and it was on that tableau that Mr. John Eddington entered the study. He was, as Holmes had predicted, young and was respectably dressed, though his jacket was several years out of fashion and was stressed at the elbows. His trousers had the same look; well-cut but well-worn. Eddington himself was of average height and bore himself with an economic and self-reliant step. His features were pleasant, except for a tight, nervous mouth with thin lips that he continually moistened with quick darts of the tongue, and his nose, though unremarkable in size, had particularly large and rounded nostrils.

"Good day, Mr. Eddington," said Holmes, "Pray take a seat. This is my friend and colleague, Dr. Watson."

Eddington acknowledged me with a nod of his head and sat. "Mrs. Bassett mentioned your name in conjunction with Mr. Holmes's." He turned to face my friend. "I must admit to being somewhat curious as to what kind of service a private detective could have done to earn the gratitude of such an upstanding and fine lady, though it is more than curiosity that brings me here today."

Holmes rested his elbows on the arms of his chair interlaced his fingers under his chin.

"Before you relate the facts of the case, indulge me a simple answer. As you are not particularly knowledgeable of whisky nor even particularly fond of the drink, are your reasons for locating Mr. Billings' whisky sentimental, or do you plan to sell it, since teaching music is not a particularly lucrative profession?"

Eddington inhaled sharply through his nose. "What manner of deceit is this? Has Augustus already approached you? Am I to receive justice from no quarter?" His face was becoming quite red. Holmes waved a hand dismissively.

"Dear sir, please calm yourself. I assure you that I have spoken to no-one save Dr. Watson about the details of your case."

"Then how could you speak of it thus when I gave you no specifics about myself or the items that were stolen?"

Holmes stood and handed our guest the paper that contained his advertisement with an impatient sigh.

"Really, Mr. Eddington, if you were so anxious to remain anonymous, you should not have placed an advertisement about the whisky. From the words "fine whisky," I deduced that the writer of the piece had little or no knowledge of the drink; otherwise he would have included the brand or whisky-maker name in the advertisement to aid in identification of the lot. As you are an educator of steady but modest income, hardly the type to purchase twelve cases of expensive alcohol with no prior knowledge, I concluded that the cases were either a gift or an inheritance. When the advertisement in question appeared in the same edition of the _Times_ as an obituary of a well-known connoisseur, it did not take much to connect the two. As to the details of your person, from the chalk half-heartedly brushed from the lapels of your jacket, I deduce that you are an educator as well as a bachelor. One, whom I might add is in need of a more conscientious cook, judging from the burned porridge on your cuff. As to the particular subject of your pedagogy, the notable musculature around your mouth and the distinctive spread between the ring and middle fingers of your left hand led me to believe that you have played the oboe for many years, presumably in the instruction of music at Mrs. Bassett's fine academy in Walsall."

During Holmes' speech, our guest's anger faded to astonishment. "It is all true," he admitted when Holmes had finished. "Even about hiring a new cook. Mr. Holmes, I apologize for becoming upset. I now understand that Mrs. Bassett's faith in you is not misplaced. In fact, from what I have seen thus far, perhaps she underestimated your skills, though until just now I would not have thought it possible for anyone to live up to such glowing praise."

Holmes seemed pleased by the compliment, and he resumed his position in his chair by the fire.

Eddington took the drink I offered him. He unconsciously swirled it under his nose and inhaled deeply before taking a sip.

"To answer your question, Mr. Holmes, I hope to regain my grandfather's whisky for many reasons, most of which are sentimental. Firstly, I held him in very high regard, as I was the only surviving member of the family who shared his great love of fine wines, and we had become very close of late. He had promised to instruct me in the appreciation of the drink, but alas, he was never able to make good on the offer. Secondly, I inherited only the contents of my grandfather's wine cellar, a very small portion of the estate. He had a great deal of investments, a town house filled with fine furniture and antiquities, a great deal of land in Derbyshire and Shropshire, and an impressive collection of art and literature. Naturally, most of these things went to his son Augustus. His wine cellar, in spite of his reputation as a gourmet, was relatively small and contained very few famous wines. You see, Grandfather believed that the Almighty lends a bit of himself to only a few winemakers in any certain year, and that the duty of the connoisseurs is to locate the blessed fruits of the obscure vineyards as well as the famous."

Holmes was silent for a moment, thinking. "If you will pardon the indelicacy, Mr. Eddington, what can you tell me of your mother's relationship to her parents?"

If Eddington was surprised by the sudden change of topic, he did not show it. He merely paused a moment to regard Holmes with a shrewd look. "You immediately cut to the heart of the matter. My mother never spoke of her family while I was growing up, Mr. Holmes. It was obvious to me that she was educated and intelligent, but she forbade me to ask of her family. In retrospect, I'm sure she wished to spare me the pain she endured from the hateful actions of her mother, and I do not blame her for shielding me from her relations. As both of my parents were sadly taken in an influenza epidemic during my undergraduate days, the secret of my mother's family went with them to their graves."

"And when did you first come to know your grandfather?"

"I was first contacted by Mr. Algernon Billings in my final year at the conservatory. I was understandably shocked when he informed me, upon our first meeting, that he was in fact my grandfather. That evening I finally learned of my origins."

"A most unusual way of acquiring relations. Tell me of this great wrong suffered by your mother."

"My mother, Amelia, was the firstborn of Algernon and Augusta Billings. When she was sixteen, her mother began looking into suitable marriages for her, though she soon became frustrated with Amelia's refusal of every candidate she brought before her. Soon after my mother turned eighteen, the situation was declared dire by my grandmother. She coerced her husband into forcing Amelia to marry into an old and wealthy family, a decision my grandfather regretted to his dying day.

'The day before the wedding was to have taken place, Amelia eloped with her music instructor and they were soon married. Grandmother forbade any member of the family to establish or maintain contact with my mother. She then spread vicious slanders against my father's character, and he was not able to secure any kind of teaching position for many years after. Fortunately, both my parents were resourceful enough to prosper in this difficult time, even while raising me. I'm sure you understand why my mother never asked her parents for help.

"When my grandmother died in an equestrian accident at my grandfather's Shropshire estate, it did not take Grandfather long to locate me, as he had secretly been keeping track of me since the cook reported to him a chance meeting with my mother and me in Billingsgate."

"Had your mother any other blood relatives?"

"Yes, Augustus, her younger brother. Grandfather said that they were close before Augustus was sent to boarding school, though I find that hard to believe now."

"Why is that?"

"Soon after establishing contact with me, Grandfather arranged for me to meet the other members of the family at a dinner in his home in Grosvenor Square, assuming that they would be as happy to meet me as he was. Sadly, this proved not to be the case.

"It seems that Augustus had been somehow been poisoned against me, judging by the disgusted expressions on his face when he would speak of my parents or my profession. He made insinuations against my having grown up in Cheapside and my education at Oxford. He was quite clear in stating that he wished Grandfather had never found me. At the time I was horrified by his lack of gentility, though I accredited his rudeness to jealousy of my mother for having given his father a grandchild while he himself was unmarried.

"That night I also met my grandmother's sisters Hortense and Lucretia, who seemed unable to open their mouths without finding fault with something, as well as my grandfather's brother, John, who was very kind to me and reminded me much of my own mother. Conversation was somewhat forced until I complimented Grandfather on his selection of wine to suit the meal. As I had fallen in with the Oenophile Society while at Oxford, I had developed a keen appreciation for the art of matching wines with food. Grandfather was delighted, and we spent most of the evening discussing wines. After dinner, Grandfather showed me his wine cellar and had me select a port for the gentlemen to enjoy with cigars in the study. So pleased was he with my choice that he invited me to his club the following weekend.

"And so it has been for the last three years that I have met with my Grandfather at his club twice a month to discuss comestibles and the issues of the day. I greatly enjoyed those times with him and shall miss him terribly."

Holmes nodded. "When did you receive the news of your grandfather's death?"

"Mr. Rookwood, my grandfather's legal representative, delivered the news to me on Wednesday, the eleventh of September, following my afternoon lessons. It was a mere two days before the funeral on the thirteenth. Fortunately, Mrs. Bassett was kind enough to give me the day off in spite of the short notice."

"When was the reading of the will?"

"Since there was absolutely no question on the cause of death, the entire process was considerably hastened by my grandfather's meticulous estate planning. The funeral was on Friday morning, and the reading of the will was the same afternoon."

I cleared my throat. "If you don't mind my asking, how did he die?"

Eddington started, as if he had forgotten my presence in the room. "He choked to death on a pheasant bone while dining at his club. A horrible accident, to be sure."

Holmes stood abruptly and began pacing the room. "Who was present at the reading of the will?"

"Twelve of us all-together: myself; my Uncle Augustus; Grandfather's brother John; my grandmother's sisters, Aunts Lucretia and Hortense; Grandfather's manservant; the housekeeper; the cook; Dr. Hardwicke and Col. Melchitt, two of his closest companions, a second cousin on the Billings side by the name of Montpelier, and Mr. Rookwood, the executor of the will."

Holmes paused in his pacing. "What firm does Mr. Rookwood represent?"

"I couldn't say, Mr. Holmes. I believe Rookwood has handled my grandparents' legal affairs for many years. Though I have only met him twice, he seems a very kind man and quite dedicated to preserving my grandparents' wishes."

"Thank you, Mr. Eddington. Pray, continue."

"The twelve of us convened in the dining room of Grandfather's town house at about two in the afternoon. Mr. Rookwood produced the will and read its contents. As you can imagine, the primary beneficiary was Augustus, though the Aunts received much that belonged to their sister, including a great deal of the art that the two of them collected. However, Grandfather rewarded the rest of us with things that he knew we would appreciate. His brother John, a concert pianist, received an antique pianoforte worth nearly three thousand pounds. Montpelier, a stockbroker, received a handsome portfolio of Grandfather's investments. Hardwicke and Melchitt received a few excellent volumes of literature selected from Grandfather's private library. The servants received glowing letters of reference and generous sums, the cook most of all. Rookwood himself received an impressive sum and a private letter that he did not read aloud.

"For most of the reading of the will, we maintained a cordial atmosphere, though my grandmother's sisters barely even acknowledged their bequests and spoke only to Rookwood. Augustus, my uncle, was not much better and was the instigator of the only dispute over the estate: the contents of the wine cellar being left to me. He spoke some sharp words to both Rookwood and myself, and insisted on taking a tour of the wine cellar with me after the will reading was over. He also insisted on viewing the bequests to both Montpelier and John." Eddington's voice betrayed great annoyance. "Of course, he didn't require audience with the items inherited by the Aunts."

"And what do you think was the reason for his inspection?"

My friend's question was greeted with a bitter laugh.

"Well, isn't it obvious? Augustus wanted to make sure the most valuable items weren't being given to the Billings side of the family, an act that I find exceeding ironic, as my grandmother's family is not at all known in social circles; yet there they were, putting on airs as if they were heirs to the throne. I would bet that Montpelier is missing the documentation for a few choice bonds and Grandfather's friends are missing the colour prints from their books. John was lucky enough to have received a single item of value, though if I were him, I would inspect the works before I attempted to have the piano moved, lest the hammers have been removed for the value of the felt."

"Please, Mr. Eddington. I ask that you forego speculation and limit yourself to the facts of the case. Now, please describe your trip to the wine cellar in as much detail as you are able to recall. Remember, the smallest observation may prove instrumental to solving the case."

The flush in Eddington's cheeks faded during Holmes' speech, and he appeared greatly chastened. "Yes, I apologize. As you can see, the dislike I feel for my uncle has clouded my judgment." He sighed heavily, and continued his speech.

"The key to the wine cellar had been removed from probate as soon as the cause of death had been determined, as the key ring was on his person when he died. Not even the servants had a duplicate, so dear was the cellar to him. When Rookwood presented me with the key, I enquired as to the existence of another key to the cellar. He assured me that the key was the only one that would open the lock, aside from the master key owned by the locksmith that would open every lock of his manufacture. Having heard Rookwood's assurances, I noticed my great-aunt Lucretia exchange a smug look with my uncle-- I know you asked me to refrain from personal commentary, but the look shared by the two seemed significant enough to warrant mention. But I digress.

"When the reading of the will was over, Augustus followed me into the kitchen and to the wine cellar door. Were he a child and not an adult, I would have characterized his behaviour as petulant.

"The key worked smoothly in the lock, and we descended two flights of stairs into Grandfather's wine cellar. I had been into the cellar only once before, though I had not been able to examine its contents thoroughly. I had been quite amazed at the multitude of bottles, painstaking organized by type of grape, country of origin, and finally, by vineyard. I was still impressed by the detached way in which the wines were organized; the legendary '47 Bordeaux were not displayed more prominently than the wines of Australian origin. Indeed, it was a gourmet's wine cellar.

"I wandered through the shelves, taking in the occasional handwritten note in Grandfather's hand, through bottles of wines and ports, casks of sherries, and a small but distinguished selection of brandies before I encountered the whiskys. Now as you know, I have no great experience with whisky, but I am familiar with many of the notable brands, at least in name. My attention was soon drawn to a large number of single-malts of a distiller with which I was unfamiliar. I am sure that the ones that disappeared were these obscure single-malt whiskys. At the time, I assumed they were the product of a small but prestigious Scottish maker, though I have been unable to locate a name that sounds familiar in my subsequent research.

"I soon found Augustus looming over my shoulder, and his face quite drained of colour at the sight of the bottles. My curiosity was aroused by his reaction, but before I could say anything, he rudely informed me that he wished to inspect the other bequests within the week and suggested that we leave the cellar. He also muttered something extremely unflattering about Grandfather. I am somewhat embarrassed to admit that I allowed myself to be distracted by his uncalled-for comment, and I began to argue with him instead of questioning him about the bottles or even committing the brand of whisky to memory. He ignored me and ascended the stairs, head held high. I followed, incensed, though I was not so angry that I forgot to lock the door to the cellar when we reached the kitchen.

"By then, I had composed myself enough to coolly inform Augustus that I would be coming the next day to begin moving the contents of the wine cellar to my home. He was surprised by this and told me not to be daft. He said that I hadn't the room in my house and that the contents would be better off in the wine cellar. He even 'generously' offered to catalogue the items in the cellar himself.

"As I had no desire to be in debt to the man or spend any more time in his company than absolutely necessary, I refused his offer as civilly as I could. I then made my excuses and spent the rest of the afternoon wandering around the house, observing the grand rooms and furnishings, and paying my final respects to Grandfather.

"Shortly before we adjourned at five o'clock, I arranged to meet Augustus at eleven the next morning to let me into the house. I returned to my home and spent the evening moving furniture to accommodate Grandfather's collection.

"The next morning, I hired a dray to Grandfather's house. Augustus was there to let me in, sulky as usual, though he was mercifully silent as he led me and the young men I had hired to the kitchen. The door to the wine cellar was locked, just as I had left it, but as soon as I opened the door, I knew that someone had been there. I am extremely sensitive to dust and was grateful that on my previous visits that Grandfather's wine cellar was unusually dust-free. When I had recovered from my first bout of sneezing enough to place my handkerchief over my face, my first thought was of the whiskys that had so strongly affected Augustus. I strode to the whisky section, and found that they were gone. I simultaneously sent for Rookwood and Scotland Yard."

"Did you notice anything at all different from the cellar, apart from the missing whisky and the dust?"

"I later examined the premises with handkerchief firmly in place and found nothing else to be missing, though I was not able to anything of note much through my teary eyes upon my first entrance."

"That is unfortunate. Who was the head of the primary detective assigned to the case?"

"I believe his name was Atheleny Jones."

"That is even more unfortunate. I assume Scotland Yard were unable to determine how the whisky thief entered, and in the course of their ineffective and fruitless investigation trampled on any real clues that may have been left behind. Suspecting nefarious acts on the part of your uncle, you placed an anonymous advertisement in the paper, but you received no leads. As your frustrations grew, you confided in your employer, who suggested that you contact me to investigate on your behalf."

"Precisely, Mr. Holmes. Are you willing to do so?"

Holmes assumed an indifferent air; one that I had seen him affect in order to cultivate interest or procure a favour. "Mr. Eddington, I have enough of a reputation in this city as to be particular in the cases I choose to investigate. This reputation also affords me the luxury of setting my own fees based on the merits of the case. Therefore I will take your case on one condition."

At the mention of a fee, a slight flush rose in Eddington's face, though his features did not betray it. "And what is that condition, Mr. Holmes?"

"If I am able to locate the twelve cases of whisky, I require a single bottle as payment."

Eddington's shoulders relaxed. "Mr. Holmes, if you are able to locate all twelve cases, both you and Dr. Watson are welcome to a case apiece, if you desire."

Holmes raised an admonishing finger. "A single bottle for myself and a bottle for Dr. Watson, but no more. I would also suggest that you refrain from giving away any more bottles before you know precisely what is in your twelve cases. Now, Mr. Eddington, I wish to inspect the wine cellar as soon as possible."

"I suspected as much, Mr. Holmes, and I requested that my uncle Augustus be in my grandfather's former residence this afternoon."

Holmes narrowed his eyes. "You were so certain that I would take your case?"

This time Eddington smiled. "Since you were kind enough to take my case, I am able to show you the cellar without delay and further deterioration of the subtler clues. If you had not taken the case, then I would have needlessly vexed Augustus; an act for which I would feel less than no remorse."

Holmes' lips twitched. "I see. If you would be so kind as to arrange for our transportation, we will be off to your uncle's."

Eddington stood and exited the room a great deal more enthusiasm than he had entered it. Holmes turned to face me.

"What do you make of all this, Watson?"

"Well, there's a great deal more involved than I had originally thought, I daresay, Holmes. I shouldn't be surprised if all those bottles contain something quite different from whisky."

"And what is your theory, Watson?"

"There is something very odd about the late Mrs. Billings' family." I shook my head in disgust. "I cannot think well of them for treating their own flesh and blood so shabbily. My guess is that the lot of them were up to something dishonest and that the elder Mr. Billings was left blissfully in the dark. The bottles in the cellar contained some evidence of their clandestine dealings and Augustus and the great-aunts had the funds and connexions to make them disappear."

Holmes patted my arm reassuringly. "You need no longer fear that the logical parts of your brain have weakened from disuse, Watson. I believe you may be very close to the truth of the matter; though I suspect the actual bottles may be more difficult to find than the _modus operandi_."

I felt myself colour at the praise, though something of his comments struck me as particularly noteworthy for reasons other than their generosity. It wasn't until we were seated in a cab with Mr. Eddington that I remembered the one other time Sherlock Holmes had ever so completely agreed with one of my theories.

As the homogeneous tide of cabs and omnibuses on Baker Street gave way to the ornamented landaus and barouches of the Park District, I leaned over to my friend and whispered a single word in his ear.

_"_Norbury._"_

To my surprise, he laughed. It seems he had not forgotten "The Yellow Face," either.

PLAYTHEGAMEFORTHEGAME'SOWNSAKE

Author's Note: Well done! You made it through the expositional chapter! If your brain isn't too tired, please leave me a review and make my day!

Enormous thanks to my beta readers, who shall be given love in the form of spinning, bone-crushing hugs.

Many thanks Cas, whose excellent eye spurred another round of edits. Regarding Australian wine, the story is set in the mid 90s, and Australian vintners were producing and exporting wine in the 40s. Australian wine would have been overlooked by all but the most adventurous epicures. I chose to highlight the variety of the Billings wine cellar by putting them in with the legendary '47 Bordeaux.


	2. An Unpleasant Encounter

Title: The Case of Missing Whisky

Author: Mundungus42

Rating: PGish

Category: Sherlock Holmes/Harry Potter crossover

Disclaimer: I own a very nice guitar and a nose flute. That's about it.

Author's Delight: You kept on! Thank you! I promise there is magic in this chapter. :)

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

The façade of Algernon Billings' former residence was distinguishable from its equally grand neighbours only by virtue of being ornamented to the point of questionable taste. I was unable to examine the Parisian-baroque finishings closely, as the sun had fallen behind the row of houses and the lamplighters had not yet made their rounds. Eddington ushered us through the enormous marble edifice that sheltered the steps to the front door and rang the bell. It was answered by a man of average height who appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He was wearing a red silk smoking jacket and would have been considered handsome had the lip beneath his fine moustache not been twisted into a disgusted expression.

"You didn't say you'd be bringing movers," he said as he glanced at Holmes and myself.

"Don't tell me you plan to take the whole lot tonight."

"Uncle Augustus, I would like to introduce Sherlock Holmes, a private investigator and Dr. Watson."

"I think we can dispense with the formalities, as I don't want you or your friends here. I've had the police and that insufferable Inspector Jones in and out of my house all week on account of your blasted whisky. I've let you in, now see what you've come to see and get out."

"Don't let us keep you from your aunts," said Holmes with equanimity, "or the daunting task of determining the fate of the contents of your late father's humidor."

Augustus glared at his nephew. "If cataloguing tobacco and entertaining my well-connected relations are the worst crimes your hired hound can invent after spying on me for a day, I hope you will soon be satisfied that I had nothing to do with the disappearance of your insignificant inheritance."

"Really, Mr. Billings," said Holmes in a mild voice, "you answered the door dressed in a smoking jacket with traces of fragrant, long-grained Cuban tobacco still on your sleeve, and the Meerschaum pipe in your pocket has only been smoked once, judging by the pristine colour of the clay. You are obviously an inexperienced smoker, having left the bowl uncleaned after finishing the pipe. From these observations only have I deduced that you were experimenting with your late father's impressive array of tobaccos to see if you wished to keep any. As for how I knew the aunts were visiting; you would have surmised as much from noting the two respectably modest ladies' coats in the hall closet, whose door has been left slightly ajar."

Augustus' mouth narrowed. "Thank you for that eloquent statement of the obvious. Now run along and leave me in peace." He was gone in a swirl of scarlet.

Eddington was hiding an amused expression with his hand. "I must make a study of your methods, Mr. Holmes, if not just for the ability to render my uncle toothless on such unfortunate occasions as we are forced to endure one another's company."

"He still had far too many teeth for my liking," I remarked. "Have you ever met a more unpleasant man, Holmes?"

Holmes made a dismissive gesture. "Unpleasant he may be, though I am all but convinced that Augustus Billings is not our thief. He had not the slightest air of a guilty man about him. But to avoid hastiness," here he smiled at me, remembering my comment to him in the cab, "I shall not rule him out as a suspect."

Eddington led us through the dining room and into a warmly lit and commodious kitchen.

"This is the door to the wine cellar. As you can see, the lock is quite secure."

Indeed, it was. The door was solid oak, and the lock was brass, and looked nearly new. Holmes withdrew his glass and inspected the door and lock, pausing over the door hinges.

"Before we descend," said Holmes, pulling a folded piece of cloth from his pocket,

"Watson was kind enough to lend this to me when we investigated a most simple affair in a Welsh coal mine. I hope he will forgive me for not returning it, as it has proved invaluable to me on several occasions."

I was surprised and pleased to identify the object as a spare surgical mask that I long ago given up hope of finding. I assisted Eddington in securing it to his face, for which he thanked me. He then pulled an intricate brass key from his trousers pocket and unlocked the door with a solid click.

Eddington hastily grabbed a candle from a nearby shelf and lit it. "Grandfather refused to have gas installed in the cellar because he feared the heat and light would adversely affect the wine. There is a lamp below that we may use for investigating, if you wish."

Holmes pulled two small candles from his jacket pocket, lit them both on Eddington's candle, and handed one to me. "Lead the way, Mr. Eddington."

The door swung noiselessly on its hinges and the bright light from the kitchen shone down to the landing of the first flight of stairs. Once we turned to descend the second flight, we were surrounded by the cool darkness, though it was not in the least unpleasant. At the bottom of the stairs, the light from our candles was sufficient to make out the features of the room. The floor and sides of the room were made of closely fitted pieces of stone, each fitting nearly seamlessly to the next. Near the bottom of the stairs was a small table upon which was perched a ledger, a fountain pen, a box of matches, and a large brass lamp. The bulk of the room was filled with a dozen or so long wooden shelves placed far enough apart to allow for comfortable browsing of the contents. Eddington was about to reach for the box of matches on the table, but Holmes stopped him.

"Have the contents of the table been disturbed?"

Eddington bent over the table. "They do not appear to have been touched. The wine log and pen are exactly where they were, since I took notice when I blew out the lamp. See, there is the single match I used to light it. I recall that I nearly burned my fingers with it, and it is burned almost all the way to the end." His brows drew together. "And see how the dust is undisturbed. It seems impossible for so much of the cursed stuff to have accumulated in so short a time!"

As my eyes became accustomed to the dark, I noticed that the walls and floor were indeed covered with a thin layer of dust, though far more than should be present in such a room having been left for only a week. I also noticed that the dust on the floor had preserved many sets of footprints, presumably from the Scotland Yard investigators.

It seems that Holmes discovered the footprints at the same time I did, because he exclaimed in pleased surprise. "Mr. Eddington, I hope that this will cause you to re-evaluate your opinion of dust. These may very well be the key to unravelling the whole disappearance!" He studied them for a minute, and then briskly addressed our client.

"If you would be so good as show me where this infamous whisky resided?"

Holmes and Eddington walked off together toward the back of the room while I inspected the log on the table. Being careful not to disturb the other items, I perused the immaculate records that the late Mr. Billings had kept of his cellar. Each acquisition was marked and dated, as was the date each bottle was removed, with occasional notes as to how the drink lived up to its reputation. As I flipped through the book, my eye was drawn to an entry from 18 March 1877 for fourteen cases of whisky. What made the entry so odd was that it appeared as if other words before "whisky" had been written, but there was no sign of them having been erased, crossed out, or blotted. The paper was pristine.

I was about to call for Holmes, when I heard him cry my name. I carefully picked my way around the footprints, and found my friend bent over, examining a footprint through his glass.

"I think I have found our thief," he said with great satisfaction. "He is approximately six feet in height, left-handed, and wore shoes with an unusually high heel."

Eddington looked incredulous. "How can you tell that these are thief's footprints?"

"Simple deduction. The only people who have been in this room since the thirteenth of this month are you, your uncle, the thief or thieves, Scotland Yard, myself and Watson. Is this correct?"

"Yes."

"Neither you nor your uncle are tall enough to have a stride this long, and policemen are not encouraged to wear high-heeled boots while on duty. As I have had the misfortune to work with Inspector Jones in the past, I know that he is hardly the type of man to favour such impractical footwear." Holmes turned to me. "Do you know what I find most curious?"

"That our thief wears such expensive shoes?"

"No, though that leads us to another line of questions altogether. What I find peculiar is that I have been unable to find any of the thief's footprints anywhere within a yard of where the cases were, nor are there any prints leading to the stairs or anywhere that could conceal a secret door."

"Perhaps they were destroyed by the subsequent investigation?"

His eyes were thoughtful. "I suppose that must be what happened. Now, what was keeping you so quiet over near the desk?"

"I found something strange in the log that I should like to hear your thoughts on."

"Very well, Watson, lead the way."

I showed him the unusual entry, and he studied it without touching for a moment.

"I am glad you brought this to my attention, Watson. It further confirms that our thief is as arrogant as he is clever. He concocts a brilliant plan for getting the whisky out of the cellar, but makes no effort to conceal his footprints or the changes he made to the log." He glanced once again at the table before he turned away and began inspecting the mess of footprints at the bottom of the stair and muttering to himself.

Eddington approached me and begged me excuse him for retiring to the kitchen. "The mask has proved a marked improvement over my handkerchief, but I will wait for you upstairs."

I glanced at Holmes, who was now tapping seemingly random sections of the floor with his foot.

"We will join you shortly. I suspect Holmes will be finishing soon."

He nodded, and quickly ascended the stairs. I made my way to where Holmes was squatted on the floor scooping some brown crumbs into an envelope. "What have you found, Holmes?"

He sighed with satisfaction and sealed the envelope before placing it in his pocket. "I believe I have found a way to locate our man, which is a relief. There are too many puzzling features of this case for me to make much sense of it at present. In some of his footprints, our well-heeled thief left traces of dirt that is distinctly unlike the dirt of any nearby neighbourhood. I'm sure that upon closer examination I will be able to determine the area, quite possibly within a few blocks, that our thief was directly before he was in Grosvenor Square."

"Then you know how the thief got in?"

"I know that he neither tunnelled in, nor broke in, nor is there any secret passage that I could find. The only remaining explanation is that the thief had keys for both the house and the wine cellar. This would point to Augustus as the culprit, but there are some very queer contradictions in this room, Watson. Very queer indeed—but that's all one. I shall call on Inspector Atheleny Jones tomorrow morning and see what invaluable observations and conclusions he has to offer me."

I chuckled. "That is a meeting I shall be glad to miss."

"I am envious, Watson. There are few things I would enjoy less than treating babies with diarrhoea and old women with gastric complaints, but asking Atheleny Jones for information is one of them."

We bade a good night to John Eddington and retired to our respective residences.

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

The next day I received a message from Homes during my afternoon tea.

_Watson-_

_Our Case of Stolen Whisky has taken a decided turn for the inexplicable. I shall require your assistance this evening at nine o'clock. Please bring your service revolver, a dark coat, a surgical mask for yourself, and smelling salts._

_-Holmes_

The list of items sent a thrill through me. Undoubtedly, Holmes had quite a caper planned for the evening. I was scarcely able to concentrate on my last patients, so keen was my anticipation. At last, eight o'clock rolled around and I set about gathering the items Holmes had requested. I was still twenty minutes early when I entered Holmes' study. He was in his bedroom but emerged when he heard my step.

"Watson! How good of you to come early!" He still wore his usual tweed trousers, but his upper body was clad in an unevenly knit jersey. His eyes took in my clothes and black bag. "Your dress is acceptable for tonight. I trust you brought all the items I requested?"

I nodded.

"Capital, Watson! Absolutely capital! I hope you don't mind waiting for me to finish?"

"Of course not, Holmes."

"Excellent! I will fill you in on the details. Do come in and have a seat."

I had never had the opportunity to watch Holmes apply one of his many disguises, and it was a fascinating process. He sat in front of the mirror and began to tell me of his interview with Jones, though I must admit, I was paying far more attention to his deft transformation from Holmes to destitute fisherman. I have always said that the stage lost a fine actor when Sherlock Holmes decided to go into detection; that night I realized that the art world also lost a great talent with the brush.

Already he had darkened his face to a swarthy tan, and he was applying light and dark greasepaints to the bridge and sides of his nose to make it appear broken. A moment later, swollen, chapped lips had replaced his own thin ones. A few aptly placed strokes of the brush added bags beneath his eyes and sagging eyelids. A dusting of rouge gave the illusion of sunburned cheeks and a nose inflamed from drinking. The final touches were a wiry, grey false beard, a matching wig, and white greasepaint scrubbed liberally into his eyebrows. He last applied translucent powder and brushed off the excess, giving a more natural finish to the surface, then turned to face me. The effect was remarkable.

"—other than Jones having a laugh at my expense, the morning was absolutely useless. It was foolish of me to expect that he had grown in any way since 'The Sign of the Four' other than in girth, I suppose."

I made a noncommittal sound in my throat, and Holmes turned his keen eyes on me. It was rather disconcerting to see Holmes' eyes peering at me out of a stranger's face. He let it go with a shrug of the shoulders.

"Well, far more fruitful than our corpulent comrade at the Yard was my examination of the dirt from our whisky thief's footprints. When I arrived home last night I was unable to rest until I had pinpointed the area from which the soil sample originated. For the first time since I took this case, fortune smiled in my direction. The sample consisted of a peculiar blend of clay, silt, refuse and crushed glass, so I was able to identify the very intersection in the warehouse district of the Borough where our thief trod immediately before the robbery. This morning, before my meeting with Jones, I engaged the assistance of Master Wiggins and the Baker Street Irregulars to canvass the area. Wiggins must have been passingly familiar with the area, as he was able to talk me up to nearly twice the usual price for his services.

"When I returned from my fruitless interview, I found Master Wiggins waiting for me with a sheepish look on his face. When I attempted to interview him for his observations, he reluctantly admitted that he and his cohorts were unable to fulfil the requirements."

"Why on earth not?"

"That is the strange part," said Holmes grimly. "They vaguely recalled having visited the area and remembered that they were supposed to be looking for a tall gentleman with high-heeled shoes, but upon returning to Baker Street, none of them could remember anything of the place they'd visited; the alleyways, the people they'd seen, not even the signs on the buildings."

"Could they have deceived you and not gone at all?"

"I hardly think so, Watson. The boys have been in my service for quite some time, and I like to think I know them well enough to know if they are lying. I know from experience that the more Wiggins tries to hide from me, the more eloquent he becomes. No, I fancy that fate is trying to tell me that this whisky is better left unfound; and yet I cannot stop myself. It is all far too intriguing."

"But what could have possibly happened to give them such selective memory?"

"Selective memory, Watson. That is the key phrase." He lapsed into thoughtfulness for a moment before springing to his feet. "If you will excuse me for a moment, Watson, I must get into character, as the saying goes." He indicated his incongruously neat trousers.

"Of course."

Holmes presently reappeared clad in shabby trousers that had been sturdily patched with net-mending thread. He had also covered one of his teeth with black wax and stained the rest of them brown.

"I suppose you are curious as to your part for tonight."

"I have been on pins and needles since this afternoon."

"Then I hope you shall not be disappointed when I tell you that all you are to do this evening is to observe. You are not to intervene under any circumstances."

"Then why did you ask me to bring my revolver?"

"Self-defence, Watson. If anything should happen to me tonight, I must insist that you remain hidden until it is perfectly safe. It will do no good for both of us to fall under the spell that ensnared the Irregulars' senses."

"Could it be caused by some kind of drug?"

"It is possible."

"For pity's sake, Holmes, do be careful. Hardly a day goes by when I do not see someone with a lung complaint from breathing in the foul smoke from some factory."

"Watson, I doubt that simply breathing the air of Southwark causes the odd symptoms shown by Wiggins and company; were that true, then a quarter of London's labourers would not be able to find their way home from work. Now, as I see you are ready, let us be off."

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

The night was cool and misty near the river; a mixed blessing to be sure. While the light fog would conceal Holmes' investigation from onlookers, it would also make it difficult for me to see what he was doing. Holmes instructed the driver to let us off on the far side of Waterloo Bridge, and we continued east along the darkened buildings that lined Barbary Road. Once we were away from the bridge traffic, the night was so still that I could hear the rats scuttling in the street and water dripping from the eaves. The fog was thicker on the far side of the river, and the sparse street lamps scarcely illuminated a ten-foot globe of fog before they were no longer visible. The stench of river refuse was nearly overpowering. I fancied that the area was so squalid that even the vagrants sought drier and more pleasant surroundings.

Having walked an indeterminable amount of time through the countless manufactories and warehouses, Holmes placed his hand on my elbow and led me into a small alley. Agile as a cat, he scaled a pile of wooden pallets and slid open a window that appeared to have had a stone thrown through it some time ago. He beckoned for me to join him.

"The next street is Beecher's Row," he explained in a whisper. "From the eastern-most window of this warehouse you may observe my exploration of the area on the far side of the street. Remember, do not interfere, no matter what you see."

"If you wish it, Holmes."

He assisted me in climbing through the window onto a stack of crates, fortunately near window-level. I was quite glad that Holmes had suggested I bring a surgical mask, since I was immediately hit by the putrid smell of dead rats. The cloth did not filter out much of the stink, but the clean, starchy smell was infinitely more pleasant than the air. I gingerly picked my way down the stack of crates and felt my way to the nearest window on the west wall, through which I could see the dim light of a street lamp.

I positioned myself to the right of the window, out of the light, and observed my surroundings. I could clearly see the intersection of Barbary and Beecher's Row, though the fog prevented me seeing further up or down either street. Directly across Barbary was a factory that looked about as pleasant as the building in which I was concealed. Next to it was a shop of some kind, though the peeling sign was impossible to read in the dim light. On the adjacent corner was another warehouse, though this one had enough bars and shutters to dissuade all but the most persistent robbers. The farthest corner also held a warehouse, but my assessment of it was interrupted by a voice singing. With a start, I noticed a dark shape staggering drunkenly out of the fog toward my hiding place.

It took me a moment to realize that it was my friend. He was hunched over and bow-legged, and he occasionally took pulls from a brown bottle in his hand. When he was closer, I recognized the song he was singing as one of a most indelicate nature. As his staggering grew more erratic, he approached one of the warehouses and banged his fist loudly on the door. When no-one answered, he wheeled around and made his way across the street from my building, still wheezing out the song with great gusto. A dog nearby began barking.

Holmes hiccoughed noisily and was wobbling toward the farthest warehouse when a curious thing happened. He had been moving in an approximately straight line toward the warehouse door when he veered sharply to the left. He squinted at the building, then deliberately walked at it again. This time he veered to the right. Holmes stepped back a few paces, began bellowing out the chorus, and put his head down and ran toward the door of the warehouse. He struck it with a solid thud and fell to the ground where he lay, unmoving. At first I was afraid he'd knocked himself unconscious, but I soon heard the second verse floating through the still air.

Holmes staggered to his feet, though he managed to roll himself into the door a few times before succeeding. He was poised to run into the door a second time, when a tall man stepped through the doorway and grabbed Holmes by the collar. I could not see him clearly and barely managed to suppress a cry of alarm when a red light suddenly flashed through darkness and Holmes collapsed on the doorstep. The stranger quickly scanned the street for witnesses, and, having been satisfied that there was no-one about, dragged Holmes roughly by the armpits across the intersection to just below my window. Fortunately, this put them both in the light of the street lamp. Holmes did not appear to be grievously hurt, to my great relief. The stranger was well proportioned and had an impressive mane of dark red hair that obscured my view his face. Thick eyebrows threw his eyes into shadow, so I was unable to tell their colour. His attire was quite incongruous with the squalid setting: a deep purple smoking jacket, bottle-green knee breeches and old-fashioned shoes with buckles. He hastily positioned Holmes in the gutter and strode back to the warehouse, glancing quickly in all directions behind him before closing the door.

The ten minutes I waited before going to Holmes were the longest in my life.

When I was convinced that the auburn-haired gentleman would not be coming back outside, I ran back to the broken window, scrambled down the pile of pallets and tore around the corner to where my friend lay. Wondering yet again at Holmes' foresight, I pulled the bottle of smelling salts out of my bag and passed them several times under his nose. He did not stir. Fearing the worst, I put my ear close to his face and was greatly relieved to feel his breath on my cheek. I gently shook his shoulders, but he still did not wake. Grateful for my prior experiences in Afghanistan but longing for my former state of fitness, I hoisted him over my good shoulder and haltingly stood, limbs crying out in protest. As I took one last look at the thoroughly unremarkable warehouse from which the man had come, I noticed the footprints he had left in the muddy sludge that collected in the gutter. They were identical to the ones Holmes discovered in Eddington's wine cellar.

I staggered slowly east on Barbary, ignoring the pains from my war wound that jarred with every step and praying for a cab. I had carried him nearly to Farringdon Street when my prayers were answered, and we were soon tucked into a hansom on our way back to Baker Street.

ALLTHECARDSAREATPRESENTAGAINSTUS

End Note: Aren't I nice to have chapter 3 posted already?

End of End Note: I love my betas!


	3. Following One's Nose

Title: The Case of Missing Whisky

Author: Mundungus42

Rating: PG for big words

Category: Sherlock Holmes/Harry Potter crossover

Disclaimer: Nope. Don't own it. But it's fun to take them out for a test drive every now and then.

Author's note: Gallia est divisi in partes tres, et quoque storia mea.

ARTINTHEBLOODISLIABLETOTAKETHESTRANGESTFORMS

Mrs. Hudson and I laid him on the sofa; she removed his shoes while I sought the trauma that had rendered him unconscious. I was at a loss to explain it. His heartbeat and breathing were regular, and there were no contusions or swellings on his head or torso. It wasn't until Mrs. Hudson began rubbing his forehead with a damp flannel that he began to stir.

"What, is that you, Watson?" His eyes slowly focused. "What has happened?"

I laughed with great relief. "I thought you were nearly for it, my dear chap! I was terrified that the red-haired man had fired a gun at you!"

"What red-haired man?"

"His hair probably looked brown to you in the dark, but in the street lamp it was most definitely red, or auburn if you prefer."

"I really don't know what you're talking about Watson." He shook his head.

"What the devil time is it?"

"It's nearly eleven, Holmes."

Holmes absently rubbed the bridge of his nose and stared at the grease paint that had rubbed off on his fingers. His eyes flicked around the room in wide-eyed panic before he was able to collect himself.

"I can't remember any of it Watson," he said softly. "The last thing I remember was having a chat with Wiggins, I believe." His eyes hardened.

"I presume they went to the Borough and did not bring enough information to satisfy me. I then sent for you and I stationed you to observe my incognito investigation, lest I befall whatever fate met the Irregulars. Apparently, my disguise was in vain."

I sighed in relief. "You remember, then."

"Not a bit of it, Watson," he snapped. He sat upright and made a move to stand, but Mrs. Hudson put a restraining hand on his shoulder.

"Now, Mr. Holmes, if you think I'm about to let you exhaust yourself after being out cold for nearly an hour, you've got another think coming."

He tried to wave her off, but she was firm.

"You will stay on that sofa until you've had a cup of tea and calmed yourself. Honestly, Mr. Holmes, I've never seen you this badly off. I'm sure the good doctor will agree that things will make far more sense once you've had a good night's sleep." She shook her head and remarked to me, "You'd think a man that clever would have a little more common sense about his own health." Tsking to herself, she went to fetch the tea.

Holmes sighed and lay back down.

"If I am to be confined to the study, will you at least fetch me a towel, several wet rags, and the bottle of mineral oil that you will find on my dresser, Watson? I should be far more relaxed in my own person, and a false beard is hardly conducive to such a state."

I did as he bade me, and returned to find Mrs. Watson fussing over him. He seemed quite relieved to escape her ministrations, and quickly set himself to the task of removing his disguise. While Mrs. Hudson poured the tea, I helped Holmes remove the wig and beard. When the last traces of grease paint had been scrubbed from his face and neck, he appeared much more at ease, though his silence led me to believe that he was as perplexed by the events of the evening as I.

When Mrs. Hudson was satisfied that Holmes was no longer a danger to himself, she suggested that we all get some sleep, a suggestion that both Holmes and I thought imminently sensible. I rose reluctantly to gather my things when Mrs. Hudson laid a gentle hand on my arm.

"Doctor Watson, it's very late, and I just wanted you to know that you're more than welcome to sleep in your old room, if you'd like. I'll wake you in time for you to get back to your practice for your morning patients."

"That is very kind of your, Mrs. Hudson, but I really should-" I cut myself off with a deep yawn.

The hand on my arm tightened.

"Honestly, a couple of grown men having to be put to bed like children," she exclaimed, leading me to my old room. She had already turned down the bed and laid out a nightshirt for me.

As I drifted off to sleep in the same bed I had spent so many nights as a bachelor, I silently thanked Mrs. Hudson for her foresight. It was the soundest sleep I had had in quite some time.

ARTINTHEBLOODISLIABLETOTAKETHESTRANGESTFORMS

Holmes had been up and dressed for some time by the time Mrs. Hudson announced breakfast. His usual brisk manner had returned and he showed no sign of the previous night's trauma. He gestured for me to sit and bade me tell him of my observations. I told him my tale in as much detail as I could remember, and he began to ask me questions. He was at first exasperated by the fact that I could remember none of the details of the warehouse, but was quickly distracted by my description of the assailant.

"A purple smoking jacket?"

"Yes, Holmes, and green brocade knee-breeches. He wore a high-cut waistcoat made of the same material and a jabot of lace at his throat."

"What of his bearing? His demeanour?"

I thought for a moment.

"He seemed very alert and did not want to be seen. He moved with the kind of economy of movement that a boxer has, and must have been in excellent condition to have moved you without obvious effort. When he was no longer carrying you, he walked with a very forceful stride."

"And you are certain that the footprints he left matched the ones in Eddington's cellar?"

"Absolutely certain. His shoes were black, high-heeled, and decorated with silver buckles. If not for the outlandish colour of the smoking jacket, he could have stepped out of a nobleman's portrait from a hundred years ago. He was really quite extraordinary."

"You saw no sign of a weapon on his person or any potential source of the mysterious red light?"

"Not a thing."

"Interesting." He lapsed into thoughtful silence. It was not until I had finished my breakfast that he spoke again. "Watson, I will not keep you from your practice today, but I will require your presence here when you have finished with your last patients. Will being here at seven o'clock give you sufficient time?"

"Do you mean to take up the investigation so soon after last night? I say, Holmes, as a physician and your friend, I must protest!"

"Have no fear, Watson. I will not be taking up such strenuous exercise today, merely observation from your vantage point last night."

I gave him a hard look. "I shall never understand things the way you do, Holmes, but it is obvious to me that our man is a very dangerous person. I should feel much more comfortable if you were to take a few days off the investigation to recover from last night's fiasco. I would also recommend a sedative for your nerves."

"Dear Watson, your concern for my health does you credit, but you should know me well enough to realize that my nerves would be in far worse condition if I were to be confined to this flat when such a man as our red-haired thief is at large."

"Come now, Holmes, I'd much rather see Jones suffer through hours in that pestilent warehouse than you. Now that you've located the man, can't you hand the case back to Scotland Yard?"

"And let the most elusive quarry I have ever had the pleasure of tracking slip through that bungler's fingers? No, Watson. This is a job that requires subtlety and a delicate touch, neither of which are qualities any reasonable person could ascribe to Atheleny Jones.

I sighed, sensing defeat. "Is there nothing I can say that would convince you to stay at home today and rest?"

"Nothing, unless it was to tell me that you had secured the red-haired man as our dinner guest for this evening and that he was bringing the whisky."

"Very well, Holmes, I shall see you this evening at seven o'clock."

I bade him and Mrs. Hudson farewell and hired a hansom back to my practice. I arrived with just enough time before my first scheduled patient to change out of my rumpled clothes and unpack the accoutrements from our latest adventure.

I had left my revolver with Holmes, just to be on the safe side.

ARTINTHEBLOODISLIABLETOTAKETHESTRANGESTFORMS

I spent my scant free minutes of the day mulling over the previous night's events. If Holmes was perplexed, I was utterly flummoxed. I could make nothing of what I'd seen. I briefly entertained thoughts of time-travel to explain the red-haired man and his idiosyncratic mode of dress, but I dismissed those as soon as they occurred.

That evening I felt none of the excitement that I felt the previous night, but felt an inexplicable sense of foreboding. It was with a relieved sigh that I observed Holmes' silhouette walking in front of the brightly lit study window. When I rang, Mrs. Hudson answered the door with a floury apron and a wide smile.

"You're just in time, Dr. Watson," said she. "I've been working on an honest-to-goodness feast since he returned home with the other gentleman."

I assumed Holmes had informed Eddington of the drastic turn his case had taken and invited him to dinner to discuss further investigation.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson. I shall join them in the study."

"How did you know that they were in—" she cut herself off with a shake of the head. "I declare, Doctor, you grow more and more like Mr. Holmes every day." She shooed me up the stairs and returned to the kitchen. I heard Holmes laughing behind the closed study door, so I knocked before entering.

"Come in, Watson! I'd know that officious-yet-respectful knock anywhere."

I entered the study, and my eye was quickly drawn to Holmes' chemical-stained desk, upon which was perched a large wooden duck where Holmes' well-used brass microscope had once stood. I looked to Holmes in bewilderment and noticed that a number of items around the room had been changed. One of the photographs on the wall had been replaced with a stunningly accurate reproduction of DaVinci's "La Gioconda," and the slipper near the fire that held Holmes' supply of pipe tobacco was now an attractively ornamented snuff box.

"Been doing a spot of redecorating, Holmes?" I asked.

"Indeed, Watson, though I have had a bit of help."

He smiled with a vigour I didn't expect from a man who had been inexplicably unconscious for over an hour the night before. Holmes' colour had improved significantly. While I marvelled at his resilient constitution, I noticed movement out of the corner of my eye, as the person seated by the fire stood to welcome me. When I turned to face him, I was unable to suppress a cry of horror. Resplendent in a bright green smoking jacket with a black velvet collar stood the red-haired man.

I was nearly as surprised to feel my friend's reassuring arm behind my back.

"Watson, I should like to introduce Mr. Albus Dumbledore, of the Ministry of Magic."

I felt the blood drain from my cheeks. "I beg you pardon, Holmes, but did you just say 'magic?'"

"Yes, Watson. Ministry of Magic, to be precise. The governing body of the British Magical Community."

"Magical Community?"

Holmes waved his hand impatiently. "Of course, Watson. Wizards, witches, magic wands, dragons, goblins, spells, enchantments; it all must be hidden from the general populace. The 'Muggles,' as they call us. It wouldn't do for a gryphon to land in the middle of Broad Street, would it?"

My amazement and disbelief must have shown on my face, for the red-haired man –Dumbledore- gave me a sympathetic look and drew a slender wooden wand from the folds of his jacket.

"Dr. Watson, I owe you an apology. Mr. Holmes has informed me how admirably you coped with the stunning and memory spells I used on him last night. I cannot apologise for having used them, but I hope you will understand why it was necessary for me to do so."

"Think nothing of it," I said, finding an approximation of my normal speaking voice at last, and availing myself upon the sofa for support.

Holmes laughed and sat next to me. "I have had the great pleasure of Mr. Dumbledore's company for most of the afternoon. He has been most candid on his part in the disappearance of Eddington's whisky, and I now consider the case quite closed." He placed a reassuring hand on my forearm. "But my dear fellow, you have gone quite pale! Rest assured, Mr. Dumbledore means us no harm; quite the opposite, in fact. Mr. Dumbledore, if you would be so kind as to give Watson a practical demonstration?"

"I should be delighted." Dumbledore held aloft his wand. "There are many kinds of magical manifestation," he said impressively, "though all incidences of magic can generally be broken down into either Transfiguration, Charms, Potions, or Wandless."

He tapped his wand on the table lamp. To my amazement, it abruptly shrank into a confused looking hedgehog, which surveyed its surroundings sleepily before resting its head on its forepaws and falling asleep. Dumbledore tapped it a second time, and it was restored to its former state.

"Transfiguration is used to alter the form of pre-existing objects, while Charms are used to affect but not alter the shape of pre-existing objects." He flicked his wand in the air and the lamp rose into the air, floated around the room, and came to rest on the sideboard.

"Potions usually do not utilize the wand, but rather alter the inherent magical properties of their ingredients to suit virtually any purpose." He drew two glass vials from the inside of his jacket. The larger of the two contained a substance that was a rather ghastly yellow in hue, and the second contained a shimmering turquoise-coloured liquid. "This is a potion that allows me to take the appearance of another person for approximately one hour," he indicated the yellow one, "while the blue one will make me invisible for twenty minutes. As these are both very labour-intensive potions that contain expensive ingredients, I hope you will take my assurance as proof of what they do.

"Wandless magic is the most difficult to describe, as it encompasses many kinds of special abilities from the gift of prophecy to being able to being able to converse with certain animals. Few wizards and witches have these skills innately, though some wandless abilities can be learned and others approximated with a spell ors potion. Have you any questions?"

Holmes glanced at me inquisitively, and I attempted to pull my thoughts together. "Not about magic, exactly, Mr. Dumbledore, but I don't exactly understand what magic has to do with Eddington's stolen whisky."

Holmes cut in. "I should think that patently obvious, Watson, in light of Mr. Dumbledore's explanation. You yourself saw the inexplicably thick dust in the wine cellar, the untouched door lock, the odd habits and dress of Eddington's uncle, and even made the insightful suggestion that he and his mother's family were hiding something from Eddington and the other Billings relatives."

My jaw dropped. "Do you mean to say that Augustus Billings is a wizard?"

"A wizard, and part of a well-to-do magical family, Dr. Watson, on his mother's side," said Dumbledore.

I digested this for a moment. "It is no good; I cannot yet put the pieces together, and any further attempts should give me a frightful headache." I accepted the brandy Holmes gave me with a shaking hand. "Mr. Dumbledore, if you would be so kind as to start at the beginning of your involvement with this case, using as many small words as possible, I would be most grateful."

Dumbledore looked at me kindly and held out a tin that contained, to my surprise, red and white peppermint candies. "I find that mint does wonders for my concentration when I am faced with a vexing situation."

I took one, and found the familiar flavour quite calming.

"As you are aware, or in this case, were unaware, the magical community lives in secrecy from the Muggle population, and our government has passed many laws to protect magical and nonmagical citizens from mutual persecution. The rules are more fluid when it comes to wizards and witches that are born into nonmagical families, thankfully rare, or those who marry into nonmagical families, which happens occasionally, especially in heavily populated areas. Augusta Primus, Eddington's grandmother, did so against her family's objections. I do not know the particulars of the relationship between Augusta and Algernon Billings other than that it produced two children; a nonmagical daughter and a magical son."

Dumbledore threw a conspiratorial look my way. "Now, Dr. Watson, I have been most impressed by Mr. Holmes' capacity for divining the particulars of any given situation, thus far. Perhaps he would be so good as to offer a conjecture as to the reasons for the breach in the Billings household."

Holmes gave a wan smile. "My dear Dumbledore, it is most elementary; it could have been the plot from one of the symptomatically sentimental novels written with the sole purpose of titillating housewives. From Eddington we have had the facts; Amelia, the daughter, refused to marry a man of her mother's choosing and her father's reluctant approval. This points to someone of the magical community. Since Augusta married Billings against her parents' wishes, we may conclude that this marriage was to be an attempt to bridge the social gap between the magical and nonmagical worlds. However, on the eve of her arranged wedding, Amelia eloped with her music instructor; humiliating her mother, who had worked hard to secure such an advantageous match."

"Very good, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes smiled with equanimity. "You begin to understand why I have been called a wizard on several occasions myself, though I cannot claim the least amount of real magic in my methods. Only the twin powers of observation and reason. But we have strayed far from events of the actual 'theft.' Pray, tell us of your first correspondence with August Billings."

"Very well. On the evening of September fourteenth, I was working a late night at the Ministry when I received an urgent message from Augustus Billings telling me that magical items had been bequeathed by his father to a Muggle relative. My department of the Ministry specializes in routine collections of this nature, and I am almost invariably the one who does the collecting, since is in making things vanish without a trace." He smiled ruefully. "Of course, speaking with Mr. Holmes on the subject has been most enlightening. But I digress.

"I was dispatched to the Billings residence where I inspected the wine cellar. From the tone of Billings's note, I was half expecting to find something truly spectacular in the wine cellar, but the only remotely magical things I found after an extensive search and a magic-detecting charm were a quantity of Ogden's Whisky, an exorbitantly priced spirit that has become popular in the wizarding world. I was half tempted to leave them both, as there is nothing particularly magical about the drink, other than the method by which it is produced. However, I did not wish to explain my decision to disregard a request from the scion of an old and wealthy family to my superiors. I reduced the cases to the size of an apple and placed them in my pocket.

"Billings's note said that he had already taken the liberty of removing the anti-dust charm on the room, and to make certain that nothing appeared out of the ordinary for a Muggle wine cellar, I placed a layer of dust on the contents of the room. In retrospect, I should have done that last, but I mistakenly assumed that my arrival through apparation and removal of the whiskey by magic would be sufficient to prevent any Muggle interference, once again dismissing the possibility of being tracked."

"Excuse me, Mr. Dumbledore," I interrupted. "What do you mean by 'apparation?' It sounds as if it has quite a different meaning than the one to which I am accustomed."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, Dr. Watson. Apparation is a magical method of transportation over short distances, and it is far more easily demonstrated than described." And then he disappeared with a pop. Immediately, there was another pop from the far corner of the room, and I spun around to find Dumbledore regarding me with a look of understated smugness that reminded me strongly of Holmes.

"As you can see, apparation is the ability to instantaneously travel from one place to another. To enter the wine cellar I might have used an unlocking charm or followed someone in while invisible, but given the high amount of Muggle police presence in the neighbourhood, and not being familiar with the habits of the household, I deemed apparation to be the safest method."

"Well, Watson, " said Holmes, whose eyes were dancing, "what do you think of that?"

"I think I would like to know how you managed to speak to Mr. Dumbledore without being on the receiving end of another memory spell."

"It's quite simple, Watson. I followed my nose, quite literally."

The memory of my vigil in the odiferous warehouse must have shown plainly on my face, because Holmes and Dumbledore both laughed.

"Dear fellow, it was far less traumatic than you imagine. I returned to the intersection of Barbary and Beecher's this morning in my own person to enquire after the warehouse that none seemed to remember. The area was, of course, very busy, and nobody seemed to pay me much notice. After a few moments' observation, I noted from the workers' hands and clothing that a majority of them were rotational, and did different jobs from week to week. This struck me as unusual, since all of the shipping houses with which I am acquainted prefer to keep a permanent staff rather than bring in new men week after week, even if it costs marginally more. The sentiment is that the money saved in labour is quickly lost in stolen merchandise.

"But before I had a chance to digest this particular piece of information, the warehouse break whistles blew, and I was nearly knocked down by swarms of workers rushing toward the small confectionary situated next to Lamprey and Son. Fragrant steam billowed from the open door, and the line into the shop soon stretched around the block. It wasn't until the break whistles sounded again that the end of the line became visible again, yet the workers seemed far more concerned with purchasing sweets than returning to work on time. When the last of the line had made their purchases, I entered the establishment and spoke with the proprietress, one Mrs. Lovett by name.

"She is a shrewd businesswoman and, unlike so many of her sex, has a fine mind for details. Not only was she able to tell me that our red-haired man was a regular customer of hers, she was also able to tell me his favourite sweets and the time that he usually came in. I then pressed her for her assistance with my plan to speak to Dumbledore. She was initially concerned that I was a policeman, but received my assurances with the same equanimity that she received clients of such eccentric appearance as Mr. Dumbledore. I thanked her, purchased a bag of liquorice allsorts, and sat down to wait.

"At precisely the time Mrs. Lovett had predicted, two minutes before the lunch whistles, our red-haired man entered the store. She masterfully engaged him in conversation to the effect that by the time he had purchased his sweets, the shop was filled with workers. I rose and intercepted him as he was leaving, gaining his attention with a few well-chosen words and assuring him that it would be in his best interests to speak with me."

Dumbledore chuckled. "As I recall, you told me you had a revolver in your pocket. You are very fortunate that had a passing knowledge of Muggle weaponry and the sense to realize that you didn't want to use it in a crowd of Muggles anymore than I wanted to use my wand."

Holmes gave a good-natured shrug. "A working man's adage is that it is better to be lucky than good, but in this case, my good fortune was tempered with a fair amount of probability and reason. Watson's account of the previous night led me to believe that you wished whatever mysterious weapons you had at your disposal to remain secret. This was my reason for engaging you in a crowded public place. I must admit, this afternoon's discussion quite exceeded my expectations for the confrontation. It pleases me greatly that Inspector Jones will receive no more credit for finding the thief than Augustus Billings will for making Eddington's whisky disappear.

"No, Watson," he said, answering my unasked question, "I have not forgotten our _rason d'etre_. Mr. Dumbledore has generously offered to transfigure replacement cases of whisky like enough to the originals as to satisfy Eddington and different enough to satisfy his uncle. Now, as I hear Mrs. Hudson's tread on the stair, I suggest that we adjourn for supper."

Presently Mrs. Hudson arrived and ushered us into the dining room. Though she had prepared a veritable feast for us, I found myself scarcely able to eat a bite.

ARTINTHEBLOODISLIABLETOTAKETHESTRANGESTFORMS

Much later that evening, after our guest had left, I found myself sitting on the sofa in deep contemplation while Holmes played something slow and sweet on his violin. The mournful tune reflected my mood perfectly, and I soon found myself sighing deeply. The music stopped abruptly. Holmes came to stand in front of me.

His eyes were grave. "For the first time in quite a while, I find myself perplexed, Watson."

I laughed, though it sounded hollow to my own ears. "That would make two of us, Holmes. I hardly know what to think anymore."

"You don't mean to tell me that this cloud of melancholy is on account of our solving the case?" He shook his head. "Even for you, Watson, that is most illogical."

His scathing tone brought all of my anxieties forth in a torrent of passionate speech. "Don't you see how this changes everything?" I cried. "Your methods, your scientific investigations, my practice? Neither of us is in a profession that can afford to acknowledge the supernatural without severely crippling logical faculties. Where will I be the next time I encounter a patient an inexplicable ailment? Or you the next time Lestrade calls on you? Can you say that the possibility of magic interference is not a concern of the highest magnitude?"

"Perhaps it is, though I doubt we will ever see such serious repercussions. For the life of me, I don't see how it will affect either of us professionally."

"How can you say that, Holmes?"

"In the sixteen years since we first worked together, have we, until now, ever come across anything in our work that could not be explained scientifically?"

I thought a moment. "No, but that's hardly the point."

"It is precisely the point, Watson. The magical community has taken great pains for several hundred years to prevent magic from disrupting the nonmagical. They have their own society, their own codes of conduct, and, most importantly, their own legal and penal system. We have no place in their world, and we have no place in theirs. With their arsenal of memory and repelling charms, it's impossible for a Muggle to be aware of their actions unless they wish to reveal themselves. Unless, of course, the Muggle happens to be Sherlock Holmes."

I was quite flabbergasted by his conceit and was entirely too upset to hold my tongue. "You place entirely too much importance on yourself, Holmes."

"Do you think so, Watson? Pray, what do you think would have happened in the extremely unlikely event that Jones or Lestrade had stumbled upon definite evidence of Magic, and the even more unlikely event that they recognized it as such?

"I will take the liberty of answering for you. He would have been memory charmed on the spot. The only reason I was able to escape such a fate the second time was because I had something to offer the man who has everything."

Images from a popular production of _Faust_ sprang unwillingly to mind. "What did you give him?"

"Nothing so grave as you would imagine. I simply promised to give him an introduction to my methods. He left this evening with a copy of my monograph "The Book of Life," which you once characterized as 'ineffable twaddle,' I believe, as well as a copy of the _Telegraph_. We will meet to discuss them next week at Mrs. Lovett's sweet shop. I plan to start him on practical chemistry by analysing London soils if he does well with the paper."

"How in Heaven's name do you expect a man surrounded by magic his entire life to understand science?"

Holmes' tone was sharp. "The same way I expected you to understand magic. Really, Watson, if you're having such a difficult time separating the spheres, I can ask Dumbledore to cast memory charm on you."

He must have read the shock on my face, because he amended quickly. "This is a great gift we've been given, Watson, and it should be viewed as such. Dumbledore would never cast magic on either of us without express permission."

"Unless one of us stumbles upon something he doesn't want us to see. And what happens when he feels he has learned everything he can from you? What's to stop him from using a memory charm then?"

"Presumably his sense of honour. The man is not a criminal, Watson. I, for one, feel that he is trustworthy."

"But how can you be sure, Holmes? Surely there are wizards in the world that would not hesitate to take advantage of those without magic. What if Dumbledore fabricated 'Muggle protections' and the Ministry of Magic to placate you?"

Holmes' pale cheeks flushed slightly, though his voice was still calm. "I flatter myself that I am capable of discerning the a lie, even from the lips of a skilled and practised liar."

"But you cannot be certain Holmes, and you would risk your mind and sanity for a bit of knowledge that you admit will not affect your practise? Forgive me for speaking plainly Holmes, but I fear this taste of new knowledge has blinded you to the obvious risks!"

"And your own fear paralyzes you, Watson!" He cried. "In all our years of association, I have never seen your fancy override your sense to such a degree. Of course I cannot be completely certain of Mr. Dumbledore, but I do not need to be. We are men of science, you and I. Even the most basic tenets of our learning are in constant flux. In Aristotle's time, disease was caused by evil spirits. Centuries of science have allowed us to cure and prevent a number of diseases and infections, but would this not be magic to Aristotle? Perhaps one day we will reach a point where all actions, magical and scientific alike, can be explained by physical laws, but until then, the only thing certain in this world is uncertainty. And that, Watson, is where reason and probability come in.

I will admit that it is possible for Dumbledore to have fooled me or to have been dishonest about his intentions, but I do not think it probable after my time with him this afternoon. You may be surprised to hear that I observed very little difference between him an a regular person, other than his abilities and mode of dress."

"That, and the fact that he could likely kill one of us with the wave of his wand."

Holmes turned his head to me sharply and observed my countenance with a piercing eye. "Oh, Watson," he said sadly, "You still fear for me."

Something in his tone angered me. "Dash it all, Holmes, of course I still fear for you! I lost you once to Professor Moriarty at Reichenbach Falls, and the other night in that horrible place, I thought I'd lost you again. You can't understand what it was like to see him strike you down without a second thought, as if you were a stray dog. I do not trust the man who did that, Holmes, and I do not think I ever can."

"I am grieved to hear it, Watson. Very grieved indeed. I shall speak no more on it." He filled a pipe with tobacco from the snuff box by the fire, which Dumbledore had forgotten to restore to its regular shape, pulled his knees up to his chest, and began to smoke in silence.

I left a short time later.

ARTINTHEBLOODISLIABLETOTAKETHESTRANGESTFORMS

The next day, I received a letter and a parcel from Holmes. The note was uncharacteristically terse.

_Watson-_

_I have given Eddington his whisky. Here is your share of the fee. Do not call on me Tuesday afternoons, as I will be having a guest that you are not anxious to see._

_-Holmes_

In the parcel was a dark brown bottle of Ogden's Old Firewhisky.

THE END

Thank you to all who have reviewed and left such encouraging comments!


End file.
